


Feeny's Last Days

by Robbie_Berkowitz



Category: Boy Meets World
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28391841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robbie_Berkowitz/pseuds/Robbie_Berkowitz
Summary: Feeny ruminates on the dreadful last years of his life.
Relationships: None
Kudos: 1





	Feeny's Last Days

Mr. Feeny throws up in the kitchen sink. The vomit is dark, like a blackened ruby or a polluted sun. He lights a cigarette. He stands over the sink, watching the dark vomit seep along the thin oily stainless steel toward the clogged drain. 

The final drink of last night is on the cracked laminate counter by the sink—vodka in a coup, with a celery stalk and a carrot. The vegetables are limp and misshapen in the vodka, like submerged cattails, drowning in an indifferent river. 

He downs the vodka in one gulp and wipes his unshaven face. The sun pours in through a crack in the vertical plastic blinds over the sliding door to the empty cement porch overlooking a weedy courtyard, where a young man who resembles a long-gone pupil sells narcotics from a tricked-out Mercury Grand Marquis.

Mr. Feeny looks to the empty paper towel rack for something to wipe the vomit and warm vodka from his chin. He finds a statement from the state teacher’s retirement fund. He picks it up and reviews the numbers, the paltry figures—a career’s worth of investments—mismanaged and reduced to almost nothing by a state-appointed administrator supervised by a governor whose hatred for public-sector workers was without limit.

He wipes his face and is inundated with images of Lila at Sandals Jamaica with that executive of Commonwealth Mortgage Partners, Jimmy Mason, that vile fat little Babbitt. He sees her dancing for him by firelight on a private balcony overlooking the gentle waters of the Caribbean Sea. He sees her rubbing Jimmy Mason’s shoulders, rubbing his chest, his cock overwhelming her small hands and narrow lips as he orgasms with no regard for her pleasure, turning over and snoring and farting, with his back to her as she stares at the ceiling and, despite everything, grins like a schoolgirl, like she’s in love, like this is _exactly_ what she wants.

Jimmy Mason was investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission, years ago, for his involvement in underwriting mortgages for sub-subprime candidates and packaging them with more qualified borrowers and then spinning off these doomed mortgage-backed securities to investment banks along with rank-and-file investors. There was extensive litigation, but he walked away with his millions, able even to keep his offices in a non-descript office park in King of Prussia, the wealthy banks snookered by his scheme bailed out by taxpayers while everyone else was left with their torpedoed real estate value and withered investments.

Mr. Feeny opens the blinds over the window above the sink and stares across the narrow divide toward the apartment opposite his, where a lanky man with filthy hair sits in a room covered with American flags, polishing an AR-15 in front of the television.

He looks in his empty pantry and barren refrigerator and finds nothing to eat but a bottle of old mustard and a few last pieces of Chicken in a Biskit from a box dating back to 2012. He puts his cigarette out on the counter and lights another and eats this lunch. 

He decides he will go and pick up a prostitute from the Philadelphia Badlands and hope she isn’t wise enough to demand compensation prior to the act. He hopes that the pimp will come along and see that he can’t pay. Perhaps if he’s feeling bold enough he’ll insult the pimp. He’ll try to antagonize the pimp however he can. Hopefully this will lead to the pimp murdering him, preferably with a gun, but a knife is OK, too, as long as it’s fatal. As long as he can bleed out in some slummy lot, among broken glass and crumbled cement, rats and filth, the only refuge left to his empty soul.


End file.
